


Mutually Assured Destruction

by bronson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, attempt at action scenes, cold war au, pedestrian understanding of cold war history forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronson/pseuds/bronson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cold War set in a pseudo marriage; Or, Stannis and Davos as fake marrieds, as dictated by duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutually Assured Destruction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quentinknockout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quentinknockout/gifts), [shadowsfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsfan/gifts), [theoldgods (missandei)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=theoldgods+%28missandei%29), [Vana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/gifts), [dubbledore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dubbledore/gifts), [starsunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsunk/gifts).



> also known as The Americans AU but knowledge of the show isn't necessary. 
> 
> PS: of course that's the title. of course it is.

**October 1974**

 

The brief: _Pose as a couple, imbibe the American dream, create social linkages, look like a happy, non-threatening but very visibly liberal family._

Stannis and Davos met at the Center headquarters in Moscow. Davos was twenty-three and Stannis probably not much older if they weren't the same age.

One look at Stannis and Davos knew this assignment wasn’t going to be easy. But born a street rat and raised a street rat, almost _anything_ was better than living the life of a street rat and dying as one. So he’d joined the KGB, trained with the best of them, and on that nondescript October day found himself suddenly married to the grimmest man he’d ever met.

They gave him an American name. Michael. _Mikhail_ , his mind whispered. Michael; _Mike to your friends, friends you’d be compelled to make,_ his captain said. 

Stannis was going to be Henry. _Just Henry_ , Stannis concluded, waving off the possibility of overly familiar friends he was just as compelled to construct. 

Davos thought he looked more like a Theodore or a Richard but Henry, he supposed, sounded as stuck-up and stiff-backed as American names went.

 

* * *

**February 1975**

 

They were in a dingy, uncharismatic corner of a McDonald’s in New York when they had their first conversation.

“Does capitalism smell like fast food?” Davos asked Stannis, in that perfect, ironed out accent he’d practiced over the years.

Stannis scowled, visibly straining at the effort of not picking at his French fries. “Either fast food or newly printed dollar bills,” he said humorlessly, with the barest edge to his consonants. He chewed on the offending French fires, half-eaten burger in his hand.

They should’ve included this in the training, Davos thought. How to eat American food without the visible disdain of Russian asceticism. 

Stannis bit on his burger, mustard oozing from the patties and dripping on the table. Davos didn’t know how someone so straight-edged could make such a mess.

“You’re eating it wrong,” Davos told him, smiling around the straw of his Coke.

 

***

 

Russian espionage rode on the backs of American social movements. Civil rights movement in the 60s, the resentment of war in the 70s. The Center suspected that the LGBT movement would be swept along and so adapted their sleeper cells to the occasion.

The weakness of democracy was in discontent, they said. _Find the rot_ _and make it fester._

“I really don’t know how same-sex couples work,” Davos confessed.

Stannis shrugged. “Same as any, I suppose,” he said, with all the indifference of someone who never entertained the idea of relationships beyond their utilitarian purpose.

“No, I mean,” Davos cleared his throat. “Who…” he gestured weakly at the distance between them. “Do we…” He really hoped that the rough tumble of his fingers illustrated the point.

They didn’t. Stannis looked as confused as ever, getting impatient at Davos’ terrible articulation.

“ _Sex_ ,” Davos finally said, flushing in embarrassment. “Who… Who does _what_ , is what I’m asking. I mean, do _you_ want to… Because I don’t mind… That is, I’m not…”

Stannis grimaced. “We’re only supposed to _appear_ like a couple. I doubt we need a heightened level of dedication in the privacy of our bedroom.” He tilted his head slightly in thought, mulling it over. “I don’t think we even have to _share_ a room.”

Davos sighed, relieved. It was hard enough to share _any_ space with Stannis, much less a space as intimate as a _bed_.

“Besides, what’s the difference?” Stannis shrugged in turn. “Sex is sex.”

It was hard to imagine Stannis engaged in anything as involved as intercourse. Davos blinked and mulled it over. KGB training meant a host of many things: covert operations, resistance to torture, and weaponized sexuality. It never occurred to him that Stannis would have also undergone the last.

Having sex with a random warm body for training was one thing. He didn't need to learn their names. _Get hard then get fucked_ was the motto that got him through most of it; in and out until the next warm body randomly sampled from another demographic slipped between the sheets.

Stannis, however, was not going to be just another warm body. They'd be together _indefinitely._ Until death (and the end of the Cold War) do they part.

Davos looked him over. Physical attraction had nothing to do with sex, or so they were taught, but Davos liked to think that he could find _something_ attractive in _anyone_ and latch onto it to get things done. Stannis was not unattractive. Tall, long-legged, moving with the subtle grace that was either deadly or malleable. _Deadly_ , Davos concluded, and found that if the need ever came, it would not be so distasteful.

Their “home” was a spacious apartment in the Upper West Side. They had iron bannisters around the balcony in place of a white picket fence, and a view of the Hudson instead of a garden. A living room with a proper television set that, thankfully, Stannis didn’t hog. They had a breakfast nook that seated four; a kitchen they both knew how to operate but, in the end, Stannis had zero aptitude in utilizing. Two bedrooms, two baths. A bookshelf, a doorman who knew their names and welcomed them with directions to the nearest dog park for the dog he was expecting them to have.

“ _Should_ we get a dog?” Stannis wondered.

Davos shrugged. “Sure, I like pets. Used to have a dog growing up.” It ran away or possibly even died at some point. Davos never found out. It just disappeared one morning and Davos’ father didn’t mind fewer mouths to feed and so never looked for it.

“Cats are more self-sufficient,” Stannis said. “Ideal if we both have to work during the day. Cats don’t need minders.”

The discussion turned out to be one of the least interesting yet most infuriating things Davos had ever engaged in, the endgame of which had just been an afternoon of frustration, no dog, and— _silver lining_ —no cat either.

 

* * *

 

**March 1975**

 

Their handler was a woman named Melisandre, their only link to the motherland. Davos thought she liked the color red a little too much, with her red hair and her red, well, red _everything,_ and a name that sounded too French to have been Center-approved.

They met in a coffee shop, shook hands as though they were strangers meeting for the first time. (And they were.) She posed as a real estate agent catering to the upper middle class demographic.

"Melissa?" Davos asked with a frown.

Melisandre smiled that secret smile Davos would grow tired of fairly quickly. "I hated it so I changed it," she said with a shrug. "A French-American real estate agent brings a certain glamor to the job, anyway. You'd be surprised by how many houses I've sold already."

She said _upper middle class_ with the disdain of a ministry worker saying _bourgeois._ As Americans, they weren't supposed to say _bourgeois_. Just _affluent_ , or _prosperous._ She held her cigarette like a bullet between her fingers and crossed her legs at the ankles, her feet in perfect points. Davos knew little about real estate agents but understood enough to know that if Melisandre sold houses to fit a lifestyle, then she must have a client base that turned noses at the Center. 

They exchanged information, pamphlets, flyers, random snippets of conversation about coastal towns and mortgage prices. Their coffee was still warm when Davos left, a mission brief encrypted in real estate jargon, the American dream in print.

 

* * *

**April 1975**

 

Their first mission together was a simple information extraction from a factory in New Jersey subcontracted by the government.

As predicted by the hundreds of scenarios played out in their training, it all went to shit halfway through.

Guns in hand, Stannis and Davos rendezvoused in a dark office. Security personnel rushed to and fro outside, their flashlights filtering in through the windows.

Davos kept close to the wall next to the doorway, trying to control his breathing.

“Got it?” he asked Stannis.

“Yeah,” Stannis whispered as he fastened the silencer on his gun and flipped the safety. 

Footsteps stopped just outside the closed door. The handle jostled, turning. Soon enough, a beam of light landed on Stannis’ figure, tucked as he was in a corner near the door.

In moments, Davos had his arm around the security personnel’s throat in a sleeper hold, his other hand covering his mouth. _One. Two. Three…_ The body went slack in his arms and Davos carefully, _respectfully,_ lowered him to the floor.

_Two outside_ , Stannis gestured with his fingers as he carefully peered out of the doorway. _Take the left_ , he pointed, as he moved to the right in a crouch.

Davos trailed his own target as he made his rounds, his back turned. Past machines and crates, Davos trailed him, waiting for the right opportunity. When the target slowed, Davos quickly raised his arm and hit him on the head with the butt of his gun.

The target only groaned, buckling. The flashlight fell to the floor in a loud clatter of metal on concrete. _Fuck_. _Hold him, knock him unconscious, kill him, shoot him._ In a sudden panic, his training was a chaos of confused instructions in his head.

In his hesitation, the target had already rounded on him, launching his entire weight on Davos. They grappled. His gun fell to the floor. The target pushed him against the wall, a hard corner biting deep into Davos ribs and left him stunned breathless.

_Fuck fuck fuck._ A fist flew at his face and stars blinded him in the dark. Davos tried to latch onto the target’s arms but he grasped only air. A knee struck him in the stomach, his breath catching in his throat. Another fist flew, catching the side of his head. 

Doubled over, he tried to see in the dark. Blearily, he looked up to find the target pointing a gun at him. A faceless silhouette that loomed above.

A mute _bang_ whistled in the air. The target fell to the floor in a dead heap.

Footsteps rushed over to him. He felt hands latching on to his arms, pulling him upright.

“Hey.” Stannis _. Henry._ “We have to get out of here. Can you walk?”

Davos bit back a groan. An ache was blossoming in his temple, a sudden pounding in his head making it hard to think. 

“You’re fine,” Stannis told him, hands roaming over his body for injuries. “Come on.”

“Did you—did you kill him?”

Stannis pulled him up a little straighter. In the dark, Davos felt him looking into his eyes, checking for blood on his head.

“Did you—“

“He’s dead,” Stannis finally answered. Curtly, dismissively.

“You could’ve just…” Davos struggled for the words in the jumble of his thoughts. “You didn’t have to…”

Stannis’ breath ghosted over his neck. “Yes, I did. Now _move_.”

 

***

 

It was well past midnight when they'd dragged themselves home. Stannis went to the basement to encrypt the message to the Center, envelope in hand.

That was what he almost died for. _An envelope_.

He sat bare-chested on the kitchen counter, probing his chest for broken ribs and contusions. He ached all over. It was not an overly strange sensation; he'd survived worse beatings. Or, rather, he _had_ to, as part of his training. But while the pain had become familiar, it had yet to be welcome.

Stannis walked into the kitchen without so much as a glance in his direction. Wordlessly, he brought out a pack of frozen peas from the freezer and tossed it to him.

Davos caught it and nodded his thanks.

"Anything broken?" Stannis asked as he rummaged under the kitchen sink for the first aid kit.

"My ego," Davos snorted. 

Stannis gave him a look that said it was too late in the evening for jokes and _I'd like to sleep soon so answer me seriously for once._

With the frozen peas pressed to the blossoming bruise on his cheek, Davos tilted slightly to one side. He grimaced as he pulled something that wasn't supposed to be pulled.

"May I..." Stannis gestured. When Davos shrugged his assent, Stannis deftly, almost gently, probed his side. His fingers felt as frozen as the peas themselves. "Yeah, they're not broken. Just bruised."

Davos sighed. "I'm sorry I fucked up," he said as Stannis rummaged in the kit for the pain relievers.

"Don't worry about it," Stannis replied distractedly, handing him the pills.

Maybe it was the brush with death that made him grasp Stannis' fingers or maybe it was the pain after all. In any case, he'd gone and bit the bullet. Unsurprisingly, Stannis stiffened at the contact. _Surprisingly,_ however,he eventually allowed it.

Davos met his eyes. "Thanks." _Spasibo_ , he almost said. "For having my back out there."

Stannis let out a stuttering breath. "We're partners. That's what what we do."

The fingers in his hand shuddered slightly as Stannis tried to pull away. With a frown, Davos held on. Stannis kept still despite his visible discomfort. 

"Are you okay?" Davos asked in a flash of worry he tried very hard to rein in. Something told him that Stannis was not so welcoming of comfort offered by others. "Are you injured?"

"No, I got my guy."

Davos grimaced. "Did you kill him too?"

A brief look of anger shadowed Stannis' face. He roughly shrugged off Davos' hand and pulled away. "He was about to _shoot_ you _._ I _had_ to do it."

Davos flinched. "Right. Sorry." The business of killing had always been distasteful to him. _You're in the wrong line of work,_ he told himself and not for the first time. "It's just that..." he shrugged, unable to argue because even to his own ears he sounded absurd. 

"I _had_ to do it," Stannis said again, a slight tremor in his voice. 

Suddenly Davos realized how they were both a little too young for this. Even with indoctrination, training, and the persistent blaring of Party propaganda in their ears they were, at the end of the day, just little more than boys.

Stannis kept his distance, shoulders lifting then sagging as he sighed heavily, tiredly, wrapping his righteousness around him like a bind around broken bones.

"Okay," Davos nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." he trailed off with a shrug, fingers loose around the tablets of paracetamol in his palm.

Stannis stared at him, doubtful of his sincerity. When the quiet settled over their heads, he turned and left without another word.

Davos balled his fist. _Stop fucking up, asshole._

 

* * *

 

**December 1975**

 

The Center taught them that Christmas in the United States was a veritable feast for the senses. Of course they didn't say _feast_ ; they used a less appealing adjective. Like _obnoxious_ or _excessive._

They weren't wrong. But it was a sensory _feast_ as much as it was obnoxious as well as excessive, or perhaps Christmas was _festive_ because it was _both_ obnoxious and excessive. Whatever the case, he found that he liked it. Davos couldn't recall a time when Murmansk had been anywhere as colorful as New York City in the holiday rush.

Melisandre had given him a key to an economical square of real estate in the SoHo area. He was going to turn it into a pub of some kind. A comfortable nook in the already restaurant-heavy economy of the city. _Someplace quiet, respectable._ Subtext: where government employees would loosen their ties and spill a few state secrets after their nth round of mass produced beer.

Davos thought about calling it _Flea Bottom_ , named after his corner in a low-level building that he once called home. Twenty families crammed into ten rooms. He despised the nook he'd outgrown, tucked between a bookshelf and the random assembly of appliances that was supposed to be their kitchen. But for a time, it was _his_ nook. Sun-warmed in the summer, where the light filtered in from the grimy windows. Stove-warmed in the winter, when heat from the kitchen crawled weakly on the broken tiles.

It was nearly evening when he'd finished checking in with the contractor. He drove back upstate, to the American home that waited for him, with pecan pies in the passenger's seat and Christmas carols stuck in his ear.

"We're late," Stannis greeted him as he pushed open the front door. He was wearing his usual scowl, varying only slightly when it was paired with jeans and a turtle neck. "Where have you been?"

Davos held up the boxes of pies in his hand. "Potluck, right?"

His scowl deepened. "That hardly counts as food."

"Dessert counts as food," Davos pointed out.

"Seeing as we'll make it in time for _dessert,_ I suppose you're right," Stannis replied evenly, taking the boxes from him. "Get dressed."

An overly friendly neighbor had invited them to their Christmas party. _Small get-together with some of our friends_ , he'd enthused, with the humility of a man who counted friends in the hundreds and knew just about everyone in the neighborhood. When the necessary round of pleasantries was over, Davos found out that: 1) he too was living with his partner, _You_ _are_ _gay, right?_ to which Davos had stuttered a yes, in that flushed, slightly embarrassed way he was supposed to answer; 2) he was allergic to shrimp; 3) his sister was married to the junior state senator. 

Davos figured that at least _one_ of those things ought to be relevant so when he relayed the information to Melisandre she had been quick to encourage their attendance.

So on the eve of the 24th Davos found himself in an apartment full of people, a beer in one hand and a warm smile on his face. He was, quite thoroughly, enjoying himself.

"How long have you two been together?" their host asked. _Peter_ , Davos' fuzzy mind supplied. _Peter Something_. 

"Oh, about..." Davos trailed off, grasping at imaginary numbers in his head as though he hadn't spent most of the week going over minute details to basic questions at Stannis' insistence. After the necessary time had passed, he tossed the question to Stannis. "How long has it been?"

"Around six years," Stannis answered with a shrug, his face just _this_ side of wistful. "But seriously, it feels like ten."

Peter laughed, too much wine flushing his ruddy face. "God, I know _exactly_ what you mean," he said.

"You have _no_ idea," Davos joked back with an answering chuckle. 

"How did you meet?" Peter asked.

"College," Stannis and Davos answered at the same time. Davos gave a sheepish grin and Stannis, right on cue, smiled at him like they've answered this question so many times before, the affection in their eyes fueled by a lifetime of memories.

Davos heard rather than saw Peter _endeared_ by their exchange. _Good,_ he thought idly, not at all focusing on Peter at the moment but at the look of warmth Stannis currently had for him.

For added effect, he leaned into Stannis, their arms touching. He felt Stannis stiffen for a moment before he felt the answering press of Stannis' arm around his waist. Davos' smile widened just a bit more. 

Their fiction unraveled in a languid, undulating pace full of anecdotes and random trivia about their long-term relationship. They were Michael and Henry, who met in Columbia where Davos was flunking out of a history class that Stannis had just happened to be in; met again at an LGBT rally in Washington; told their parents to fuck off, started living together shortly after that. _Having the time of our lives now that we're together, no one to answer to,_ Davos grinned, and Stannis, just as they practiced, nodded along in that reluctant, _I better agree or I'll be sleeping in the living room tonight_ manner to the effect of nuance. _Touches of authenticity_ , Melisandre had reminded them. _Write a story then sell it._

Well into the evening, Davos was starting to believe that Stannis was capable of being this warm, charismatic man he portrayed. Their audience lapped it up and for a little while, Davos let himself enjoy it like the rest of them.

Once they'd gone through the list of details they were prepared to divulge, Davos went off-script and built memories from the ground up.

"Do you remember that trip to Florida?" Davos asked Stannis, too much beer buzzing in his ears. He barely noticed the uncertainty that passed over Stannis' eyes.

"Barely," Stannis answered. "I'm surprised you remember it."

"It was terrible," Davos said, turning to the other guests that shared the living room. "Food? Terrible. Flight? Terrible. I was promised this delicious Angus beef burger and all I got was a flat, pathetic _mess_ straight out of McDonald's."

Stannis, to his credit, kept quiet and sat as though he really cared about this memory that Davos shared.

"It was the first trip we ever had as a couple," Davos said, a slight smile on his face. He looked at Stannis with the kind of love they were expected to have for each other. "I _hated_ Florida. But I'll never forget it."

Stannis looked back at him, no doubt remembering a different memory with burgers and fries and the God forsaken McDonald's-quality food. "Now I feel bad," he said to the guests. "For not remembering." A slight smile flitted over his lips in what was meant to be embarrassment but, to Davos, appeared uncertain. Wary. 

"God, you're useless. Why did I ever love you?" Davos joked, and the room erupted into warm laughter. 

It must have been the beer, Davos would argue later on, or the Christmas atmosphere, or just sitting there, talking like a normal person, armored by the farce that was their duty to play out. 

Whatever the reason, Davos summoned a burst of courage from nowhere and leaned forward to kiss Stannis on the lips. A dry, chaste kiss that caught Stannis by surprise.

The room cheered and Stannis, compelled by their audience, kissed him back. A slight, almost indistinct answering weight of Stannis' lips against his. 

When they parted, Davos smiled at the other guests, raised his beer to answer their cheers and turned to smile at Stannis as if to say _We did it. They like us._

Stannis didn't smile back, avoiding his gaze. He raised his own bottle of beer and took a long drink, disguising the frown that knit his brow, the sudden steel in his eyes. 

"Sorry," Davos told the guests, as a heaviness plummeted in his belly. He mustered a smile for the room. "My Henry's a bit conservative."

They went home just before dawn. The warm buzz had left Davos in a way that made him feeltired.

In the silence of the foyer, Davos spoke first. "Look, I'm--"

Stannis shrugged off his jacket. "You did well today."

"What?" 

"They started calling you Mike."

Davos was stunned. "You didn't mind..."

"I _did_ mind," Stannis looked at him blankly. "But it's part of the job, isn't it? We're a couple and it would be strange if we weren't affectionate towards each other."

It wasn't the answer Davos had expected. He was bracing for anger, another argument that would wear them down until they went to their separate rooms fuming in frustration. For some reason or another, however, Stannis' emotionless resignation made him feel even worse.

"Yeah," Davos sighed. "Yeah, it would be."

Stannis nodded. "Goodnight, then," he said, barely glancing at Davos' direction as he walked away, back to the privacy of his own room and a life he didn't share with Davos.

Davos watched him go. "Goodnight," his voice echoed in the empty foyer.

 


End file.
